Encounter in the wall

Encounter in the wall
Once upon a time, when the experienced mountaineer was climbing down from a noble alpine pinnacle, he met the inexperienced mountaineer in the platy gully that narrowed down to an extremely difficult chimney.
He had been lying in this place for several years. Head down. His spine was broken and now protruded from his throat like an ill-fitting tie; as a result, his skull hung down behind as if he had forgotten his neck. Instead of clothes, only shreds of puttees fluttered around his bones in the cool mountain wind, on which the pieces of flesh above his chest held their own relatively best. And he possessed only one arm, because the other had already left his torso last spring and had flown downward into the dark edge gulf. He had probably copied the flying from the yoke vultures, to whom the eyes of his master were a delicacy at the time.
Since the experienced mountaineer was stuck next to this creature on the wall, he spoke after a short greeting:
„If an inexperienced climber climbs down here with such footwear (let alone climbing shoes), on top of that alone, I have no pity!“
„Forgive me – – -“ replied the inexperienced mountaineer, „forgive me that when I was little there was a mountain picture hanging over my bed; for since those years I have heard it singing in me: the longing for the blue mountains – – – without ever having even seen a hill. And this was my first – -“
„You can tell,“ the skilled man interrupted him, holding his nose.
„Yeah yeah!“ nodded the corpse, smiling softly. „Safe climbers are always right: it doesn’t smell like hyacinths – – however, I hope you will do me a favor anyway: even if you don’t feel sorry for me. But I see: you are practiced and therefore you will get down to the valley in one piece. And I beg: would you not be so kind as to take this postcard, which I already wrote two summers ago to my mother in Tilsit, and post it in a mailbox?“
„Why not?“
„Why yes – – are you afraid?“
„Give me the card!!!“ shouted the safe man – – and as soon as he felt it in his hand, he scrambled away, as if threatened by thunderstorm fingers, without a greeting from the talkative corpse.
But the corpse still waved at him with one arm: when he ran down over the mountain – – – until he disappeared: there behind the hump where the hut lies in the valley, which already sank completely into shadow.
And soon night mists grayly surrounded the deserted peaks and the darkness held a wedding in the silent cirque. And somewhere a salamander sang a serenade – – –
Then the inexperienced climber dug out a guidebook from a crevice and read which wall or ridge of his blue mountains he had not yet climbed.
For the nights belong to the fallen.